


closing the gap

by bridgekit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bridgekit/pseuds/bridgekit
Summary: What happened after the fall? Written pre-season three, so not canon compliant.





	closing the gap

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written Christmas of 2012 as a birthday gift for a friend, long before Season 3 even thought of airing. This is what I imagined happened after the fall, and honestly I still stick to my interpretation over the show's. This hasn't been edited in any way except spelling since I wrote it, and probably is full of American-isms. Hope you enjoy!

Four seconds until impact. A tenth of one feels like a minute. 

Only three now. John is calling my name. 

Two, all sound cuts out. 

One. There is nothing. 

The concrete slams into me, grinding against my face. Blood leaks from my temple where I struck the ground. I am not dead. How can I not be dead? I need to be dead. Plan B comes into action now. I lie still. Lifeless. John cannot see me breathing. He cannot take my pulse. He reaches me. They pull him off just in time. I am lifted onto a stretcher and around the corner. I will never see John again. He will never see me. They put a bandage on my head. 

I am lifted into a vehicle. An ambulance? No, that does not make sense. I am already at the hospital. I pry my eyes open. Oh. That makes sense. It's one of Mycroft's cars. Molly must have called Robertson. I thank her silently. The sleek black car smoothly rolled away from the back of St. Bart's, taking back roads to avoid all possible encounters with those who believe me dead. 

I will not cry. John would not like me to cry. I will be strong for him. 

We pull into the back parking lot of a seemingly abandoned factory thirty-four and a half minutes after I jumped. I know because I counted. They take me inside. I am pushed into a shower. New clothes. They cut off my hair. I run my fingers through it one more time before they die it ginger. It is not a time for sentiment. I must be detached. I must not show my emotions. I am stripped of my coat and scarf. I feel naked without them. No. I feel naked without John. The coat and scarf are merely emotional attachment to memories. I have the memories. The coat and scarf go to Mycroft. Through him they will get to John. He will keep them. They will hang on the hook on the back of the door of our flat. His flat. The seam of Sherlock and John has been cut. 

I am one. He is another. 

I spend six days in a hotel room above Mycroft's hideout. He stays with me for four of the six. He must not have known the plan, judging by the look on his face when he saw me. His arms twitch up as if to embrace me. By habit, I stiffen. So does he. The Holmes brothers have been trained better than this. 

On the seventh day away from John, I am moved to a small town in Germany. It takes me a few hours to pick up the language. I am slower without John. I have lost my touch. Mycroft gets me an office job. I am needy right now, though that will never be admitted. It is enough that he sees. 

I work my shift. I go home. I forget the milk and call out to John. He is not here. John is not here. John is in 221B, or his office, or Sarah's. I will not cry. John would not want me to cry.

I catch my reflection in my phone. I have no mirrors in the flat. I strain to see my new face. It is one I have not seen in a while. Eventually, I leave the little room to go to the deli across the street to use the mirror in the men's room. I do not wish to see this new man. I will see everything. What is a sad face to a normal man is thousands of layers deep for a man like me. I have gotten thinner. The already tight shirts hang off my bones. It is unhealthy. I do not care. John would care. My hair is dull and uncombed. The circles under my eyes from before I met John have returned-my drug days- though I have not smoked in weeks. My lips are colorless. I can see the veins through my skin. 

I get back to the flat. I have milk this time. John reminded me. My life is meaningless. I need a case. I cannot have one. 

Mycroft shows up one day. I answer the door after a few minutes of coaxing. I am in my pajamas, as I have been for the past week. He looks at me sadly. He has brought me a coat. It is not my coat. It does not have the familiar wear of John's fingertips on the sleeve where he held it sometimes on cases. I run my fingers over the spot. It is not John. A scarf completes the ensemble. I am the old Sherlock Holmes. I am the complete opposite of the old Sherlock Holmes. 

Mycroft leads me out to his car. We drive northwest, towards the English Channel. We cross it. We are back in London. I am not returning home. We take the wrong streets, even for a bad driver. I recognise it now. The cemetery. I touch my hair subconsciously. It is back to almost normal now. John may recognise me. 

Maybe that's why he brought me the coat. 

We arrive at the cemetery. I am given strict instructions onto what I am and am not allowed to do. It isn't like I don't know. They all boil down to one thing: stay away from John Watson. 

The car pulls out of the driveway barely moments before a cab pulls up. It stops. I see the driver. It's the cabbie that brought John to 221B that first day. I see the passengers. John. Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson walks John down the path to my supposed grave. John takes unfamiliar footsteps. He has not been to see me yet. Mrs. Hudson has, though. Her feet fall into the smudge marks in the concrete next to the headstone. She says something, and then turns and leaves. She is crying on the park bench. For now, I turn my attention back to John.I am near enough to hear him. 

Oh, god. He is asking me not to be dead. I have to be dead, John. It's for you. You would take my place if I was not. You can function without me, John. You did before. I, however, am lost without my blogger. I turn my eyes back to him as he begins to move away from my grave. A quick half-turn to his commanding officer. That's me. His commanding officer. A half-smile to match his half turn. It takes all my control to not run after his cab as it pulls away. I resist. 

Anthea's car pulls up after them. Mycroft is not among the passengers. I slide in next to her and we roll out of the parking lot, the opposite direction of John. The car ride is silence except for the clicking of Anthea's nails on her phone and the slight vibration of the motor. I receive a text. It's from Anthea. I'm sorry. I am too, Anthea. But I say nothing. She gets off at Mycroft's house. He has sort of adopted her, although she is only a few years younger than I am. It's complicated. 

I am driven back to Germany, though not before my hair is re-dyed and re-cut. I am given glasses. I do not need glasses. My new coat and scarf are taken away from me. I am dropped at my flat. I am alone once again. I have not cried since I jumped off St. Bart's. 

The tears come now. How would John think of me like this? His commanding officer. They stop after a few moments. I will keep it together. I touch my face. How do I look now? Two weeks before I was unhealthy. I think I may be almost dead. 

I return to the deli a week later, this thought haunting me. I am almost dead. I have no color. My eyes are fading away into grey. My hair is bright, though only because it was recently dyed. I have no hunger, though I am even thinner than three weeks ago. 

Another week? Two? I am simply taking the slow road. I could have just jumped for real. It would make no difference. I will never see John again. My one thing to live for has been put behind glass. But I will. I must. One day Moriarty's men will forget him, forget their mission. It may not be for twenty years. It may not be for one hundred. But I will get back to my John. 

The man behind the counter must think I'm homeless. He buys me sandwich. I eat it slowly. I have gone without eating for cases before. Never like this. I realize that I'm hungry. I buy another sandwich. And another. A cup of soup. This man will make money today. He needs it. He and his wife are obviously struggling to pay the bills. Another sandwich. I go home, but promise to return the next day. I keep my promise. After a few days of this I start looking better. I go to the shop. I remember the milk. This might become a habit. I can show John when I go home. Look, John. I remembered the milk. 

Mycroft phones me. He and I have not interacted since he brought me the coat. I can tell he's upset by something. He wishes to see me in person. I go to his Germany office. I take a cab. I never got a driver's licence, even though I can drive. No need to go through driver's ed. 

I wonder if John knows. I never told him. I knew everything about John. Did he know anything about me? 

Anthea greets me at the door. She has her phone out. Obviously. I worked it out years ago. Anthea can't remember anything. This is the only thing that works for her. She texts herself again before leading me to Mycroft's office. I know where it is. I stayed here once when I worked a case in Berlin. 

He motions for me to sit, then breaks the news: John started going back to his therapist. He stopped blogging. He is using his cane. Oh god, the cane. I thought I got rid of that need. I guess I got rid of myself, too. The limp came back to him. I did not. I press my palms to my forehead. Mycroft rubs the space between his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger. Both actions mean the same. John needs me. We sit for a while, saying nothing, only reading each others faces. A mental conversation. We use to scare the teachers. Even our parents. It's a skill I appreciate now, when words escape me. 

I am back in Germany. It's quiet in my little flat. The shops are all closed today. I check my phone. It's Christmas. I begin about a billion texts to John. I send none. I am dead, remember? Instead I text Anthea. Merry Christmas. Don't be too hard on yourself today, Sherlock. Think of him. Him? Precisely why I'm hard on myself. It's Christmas. I should be there for him, Anthea. But I don't send it. 

I go to the deli. The man there is Jewish. He will be there today. He greets me a very happy Christmas. I sit at the counter. I learn his life story from his actions. Orphaned during the Holocaust. Dreadful. I write him a “very happy Hanukkah” on a napkin and exit the deli. 

I take a walk. It has been a long time since I thought about Christmas. The whole idea was ridiculous as a child. Never believed in Santa. Never cared about Jesus. No one could come back to life. Except me, I guess. Though I never died.

I am dead now. Dead to John. He is all that counts. I wish I was there now, celebrating Christmas with him and Lestrade and Molly and Sarah and Mrs. Hudson and another one of John's stupid girlfriends. They're probably all in their own homes now. No need to go to 221B with its hole. 

I sleep the rest of the day. Bored. I go to the office the next day. They think I'm some stupid college kid. I duck in with my glasses and messenger bag and cup of coffee. I don't drink coffee. I leave it on the counter for Melanie. She will appreciate it. A whole day goes by. I type words into screens and think about the time when I'll get back to my John. 

I stop myself. That's the second time I've referred to him as “my John.” He is not my John. He is John Watson. 

I shake my head and go back to putting letters into a screen. Words into a screen. Words. So many words. I have not eaten in three days. The monotony makes me dizzy. I blink hard. The pictures will not return to one. I go to stand up and miss. When I open my eyes next, the world is blank. 

I wake up a period of time later in a German hospital, hooked up to IVs and wires galore. The doctor tells me in a thick accent that I was very dehydrated and starving. I nod him a thanks and close my eyes. How long has it been? When I open my eyes next, Mycroft sits next to me. He tells me that I was out for two days and that, Sherlock, if I don't start eating, he'll have to keep me here. I groan and agree to take care of myself. Inside, I tell myself that it's for John. 

I stay in the hospital for a week. I have broken my wrist, too, and they had to make sure I had no injuries internally. There weren't any, I told them, but they had to check. 

Three months. No word from Mycroft. I texted Anthea several times. No luck. On the dawn of the fourth month, I begin to worry. I write to John. I write for myself. The letters are never sent. A pile of envelopes, addressed and ready to send, lie in wait for a safer time. Is a whole year long enough? I wait in earnest. 

The man across the street knows I'm a Londoner. He gives me the newspaper his wife picked up when she was there. Headline: One Year Since Fraud Genius Commits Suicide. The picture of me in the deerstalker is on the front, coat pulled up over my face. I am suddenly grateful for that hat. I know what happened, but I want to know what they say about me. I turn to the page. Lestrade has a short interview, as did Sally, but the bulk of the article was by someone more important. They questioned my John. 

(That's three times.) 

I read quickly. There was a brief portion on how he felt after I committed suicide (dead) and the funeral (depressing). They then asked him about me. He said only nice things (nothing at all like me) but one stood out: I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe in him. He believes in me. The quick-turn. The cane. The interview. John Watson needs me. I need John Watson. 

I thanked the man for the newspaper and ran back across the street, tears faintly running down my cheeks. I burst in through the door and: Mycroft. I had seen the signs, so why was I surprised? Doormat rubbed the opposite direction, shoe marks on the staircase. Smudges on the door next the the keyhole. I pull myself together instantly, wiping my tears off with my sweatshirt as I pull it off. He turned to me. 

I am being moved to France. Closer for him to keep an eye on me. I close my eyes. I took French in University. I still remember it all, one of the few things from school I didn't delete. I guess I saw myself there one day. 

Montpellier is nice enough, I suppose. Mycroft got me into the Saint Anne Neighborhood. The Violin-Making Capital. I pick up a new violin, though I still can't play it with my wrist broken. It is nice to be able to hold it under my chin when I think. 

More and more these day my thoughts drift toward John. I try not to. It hurts too much. But I cannot help it. I find myself buying a sweater in a street market though it is the middle of summer. I pick up my bow and play his favorite piece. It's the one I wrote at Christmas, when Irene was missing. I need no sheet music. The memory of him brings the notes to me. 

Summer turns into fall. I am no longer working. I am given made-up cases from the people at Mycroft's office. I solve them all. They are amazed, but say nothing. My John would (four). They do not know that their boss could do the same, if he wasn't so caught up in politics. I continue to play their games. 

Winter in France is much nicer than London. Not rain, but snow falls from the sky. It makes everything look clean and bright for a few hours, but then they have to ruin it with their snowplows and shovels and cars. I sit outside early in the morning. The snow reflects the moonlight. It look peaceful before the sun comes up. I drink tea slowly. I go inside before they start to scrape the roads. 

I studied snowflakes for two whole winters when I was a child. I wanted to know how they were all so special, all so different. Mycroft told me about it. I thought some must be the same. He said that out of the billions of people ever born, no two were exactly the same. I take that to heart now. No one will ever be like John. 

November ends and December begins. I go back to the deli in Germany and wish the deli man a happy Hanukkah. I remember the milk on the way back. Be proud of me, John. 

Mycroft orders me to get to his office. I do. There is nothing else going on on this bleak December evening. I get home overexcited. A breach in security. How wonderful. Mycroft's men get through Moriarty's system. The snipers are identified. Two have already been killed. The last four are being tracked and will soon be arrested. 

I play a happy Christmas piece. I go out to the shops. I buy myself a new scarf. No coat yet. I will wait for mine. I can wait for mine. I will see my John. There is no shame for me calling him that anymore. No one will know. He is my John. He is the most special person in all of time and space and I can call him mine. 

The few belongings I have are straightened out. I shower. I have bought myself a mirror. This Sherlock is happy. He is grateful. He looks back at me, still unfamiliar. His hair is red and short, compliments of Mycroft. He is still too thin. Yet this Sherlock's face is the one I wish to remember. This Sherlock has just found out he can go back home. 

December 23rd. I receive a call. Mycroft, of course. Anthea wouldn't call. I have only one other contact, and that is John. The fourth sniper was located. They have their eyes on him. I beg Mycroft not to tell John anything. I must sort this myself. He agrees. 

I cannot sit through the next day and a half. I am moving constantly. My neighbors have complained about the violin. I don't make a motion to stop myself. I play on. 

Christmas day, Mycroft comes by with Anthea and a surprise: Molly. She knew the plan from the beginning, though she truly thought me dead. When she tries to hug me, I step away. Stupid, stupid habits. But it's Molly. She understands me. She informs me that Lestrade is having a Christmas party. John will be out until at least ten. 

We drive to London. A homeless woman recognises me. I beg her not to spread the word just yet. Give me a few days. I will give her a signal to restart the network. Her name is Chelsea. I give her a 50 pound note. Chelsea accepts. 

We take the scenic route through town, driving by the police station and stopping outside for a second. It is good to be back. The seam between me and my John will be sewn again. We will be whole. 

We finally reach 221B. I touch the door. I have not seen this place for almost two years. I pull my scarf up over my nose. No one recognises me. I am too thin. I am ginger. I do not have my coat. But John will know me. He will know how I stand. He will know the shape of my face. 

I wait. I lean against the wall outside. I sit on the curb and take in the sights of the city. It has been a long time since I've been surrounded by English. I do not take the language for granted now. It is beautiful. German is too guttural, French too elegant. The varying dialects of all the same language is music right now as I wait for my John. 

Ten o'clock. I stand by the door now. My eyes scan the face of every taxi passenger, every pedestrian, every driver of every car. I do not see him. Chelsea walks by. She tells me he's near. Another 50 pound note. She's gone. I do not care about the money. I need to see him. 

There. 

I see only the top of his head as he rounds the corner, but that is enough. I know him anywhere. My heart speeds up. This is what I've been waiting for. He continues down the pavement, oblivious to me. He's still got that stupid cane. He stops to receive a text, then continues down. 

He is twenty meters away from me when he looks up. I know because I measured. The world stops moving for that single second our eyes meet. Sound is cut off. No one moves. There is no one. He does not think I'm real. For the tiniest of moments, he does not believe in Sherlock Holmes. But then he does again, and the world reboots. 

He drops his cane and walks towards me. His eyes are wet. Mine must be, too. “Sherlock, I--” I stop him with a hug. He fits in my arms perfectly. We stand like that for a minute before the cold gets to us. I have been out here for two hours. My lips are turning blue. We go inside. The flat is exactly as I left it, though there are three more bullet holes in the wall. John must have shot it when I left him here. Why did I leave him? 

“Sherlock, how-” 

“Not now, John. Not now. Please, not now.” 

We sit in our chairs, drinking tea. It is terrible tea. John made it. It is way too watery. I do not say anything and drink it a because he made it. 

“Where were you, Sherlock?” I tell him everything. I tell him about the little town in Germany. I tell him about the deli man. I tell him about the flat with no mirrors. I tell him about the coffee I left for Melanie at the office. I tell him about the time I almost died. I tell him about Montpellier and the violins. I tell him about the shops along the streets and the sweater I bought in July. I tell him about the visit to the cemetery. He goes blank at that one. I tell him about the little stack of letters I wrote him when I went mad. I tell him about the friend I made in Anthea. I tell him that I don't have a driver's license because I might never get the chance to tell him again.

“That's everything, John.” 

“One more thing, Sherlock.” 

“I will tell you about the fall another day, John. Not today.” 

“I wasn't going to ask you that.” 

“Oh.” 

“Sherlock Holmes. What on earth happened to your hair?” 

I laugh and tell him about the disguise. He laughs when I tell him about the glasses. I go to my room an hour later. All of my clothes are too loose now. I am still too thin. This will change, though. I got my John back. I climb into bed finally after finding some pajamas that fit. I sit wide awake. After all the time I spent waiting for John, we are separated too soon. 

I grab a pillow and a blanket. I listen to his breathing outside his door. He is asleep. I go in his room and position myself on the floor next to his bed. That's better. In time, I will go back to my own room. For now, I have the luxury of his. His breathing is even and it takes me no time to fall into the pattern. I slip into sleep long before I want to. 

In the morning, he trips over me going out to the kitchen. He knows why I'm in here and asks no questions, but leads me to my room. It is only five in the morning and I have had four hours of sleep. He sits with me until I fall asleep again. 

When I wake up, he is still in the chair, though he has changed into his usual attire: horrible old sweater and jeans. Now he looks like my John. 

We tell Mrs. Hudson. She cries. Our family is whole again. John has work off. We sit all day in our flat. I've missed this place. Mycroft comes around. He fills John in on some of the things I can't bring myself to talk about. Moriarty. The fall. How I survived. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and put my hands over my ears. Now I don't have to hear about it. When Mycroft leaves, I remain in this position. John sits next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. We say nothing. We are whole now. I open my eyes and take my hands off my ears half an hour later. John is still here. The hand on my shoulder tells me that, but it is better to see him. We continue to sit like that. 

Mrs. Hudson brings us lunch. We thank her. Mycroft has told her what happened, too. She hugs me, then leaves. I have not eaten in two days. Habits are hard to break, and not eating is mine. Being with my John should remedy that soon enough, as I will with his limp. It is already getting better. 

Mycroft calls a little after lunch. All charges against my name have been dropped. I was not aware there were any, but I thank him. We go visit the station. Even Anderson seems a little glad to see me. We go to Lestrade's office. John knows enough now to tell him everything. I do not like them to see me this way. Weak. Dependent. Broken. I am being fixed. They welcome me back. 

I go to see Molly, to thank her for everything. I hug her to make up for the hug she tried to give me. I am getting better at hugging. 

We go to the shop. I remember the milk. Look, John. I remembered. He is surprised. I am proud of myself. 

It is late. John knows I'll be sleeping in his room again, though I have said nothing about it. We sit in silence until we drift off into sleep. He does not trip over me the next morning. 

When I wake up, he is reading the newspaper in the kitchen. He is going to work today. I sigh. He finds me my coat. He had taken it off the hook a few months ago because he didn't want to look at it. He forgets the cane when he goes to get it. I smile. I am fixing him. He is fixing me. 

When he leaves for work, I go out. I walk the streets until I find Chelsea. I give her the signal: another 50 pound note. She will restart the network I set up. I had Molly take it down after I fell so no one else could use it. 

I go back to 221B. I text John. Come back. I miss you. He can't. He's working. I make do. I clean my room. I clean the living room, the kitchen. The flat is spotless when he gets home from work. He sits with me and we watch some show in silence. It is good to feel his presence. I was so alone. 

One day the press comes by. I agree to answer questions, though John ends up answering most of them. They all wanted to know if I was a fraud or not. I am not, I tell them. I had to say that or they would have been killed. I tell them about Richard Brooks. Mycroft's men found his real file. Richard is Jim Moriarty's real name. Consulting Criminals cannot be called Rich Brooks, however. Moriarty is much more intimidating. 

They leave finally when John pushes them out. It has been a long day. I drink John's terrible tea. Two months. I am almost back to the old Sherlock. John's cane has taken its rightful place in the hall closet. 

I am still sleeping in his room. I may never go back to mine. One day he has had enough of me sleeping on the floor. Instead I sleep next to him on the bed. I think he needs this just as much as I do. 

It becomes a routine. Everything is Sherlock-and-John again. I go back to the station. We work a few civil cases to get back into the swing of things. After a week, we are back to murder. The cases come in. We solve them. John is almost as good as me now. Apparently they had him back to work when I was still in Germany. I still see more, though. He sees enough to solve them all by himself. I am proud of him. I let him finish one for me when I am sick, a rare occasion. 

A year back. John has not had a girlfriend since I got back, something that I'm ashamed to be happy about. They're rather annoying. 

It has been three years since the fall. We do normal things. I go with him to a movie. I hate movies. Too much sitting. No talking aloud. The last time I went I was thrown out. I keep it together for him. 

We stop making the papers after Lestrade banned the press from my crime scenes. I cannot work with them now. They get into the inner reachings of my brain and twist Moriarty into my thoughts until I lock myself in a basement and sit in the dark. 

I cannot be fixed all the way. Mostly, yes. But there will always be that little bit of hurt left in me. A void that can't be filled. 

John could always put a bridge over that void until I could continue working, though. He can always be help. We find ourselves locked together. There is no more John, no more Sherlock. We do things as Sherlock-and-John. John-and-Sherlock. The bonds are made of titanium thread this time. We will not be broken. Sally jokes that we're dating. It isn't that. We're not friends, not collegues, not lovers. We are us. We are snowflakes. No one like us. 

The next December, there is snow on Christmas. John finds me out on the roof that morning when I'm not in his room. I tell him about the snow in France. I tell him about the study I did as a kid. We sit side by side as I talk, my head on his shoulder. Everything is perfect, the city quiet on Christmas, no one to mess up the snow. 

Later I write a letter to the deli man. I tell him who I am. I tell him my story. I wish him a happy new year. I will visit him one day. Thank him for buying me that sandwich. 

Molly is having a Christmas party this year. We go. I bring my violin. They like to hear me play. Anderson was invited, but he stays at home. John wears an ugly Christmas sweater. I, the purple shirt I've missed since I left. 

When I was a kid, our Christmases were short and unsatisfying. We did not exchange presents, did not have a tree. We went to church and had a quiet dinner with our grandparents. We were not allowed to speak. I am unfamiliar to this tradition. The first year we lived together, John insisted we host a Christmas party. My first Christmas. These people are my real family, not the stranger parents I lived with the first 16 years of my life. Mycroft was my only family those years, and even our relationship was strained. I belong here. 

I sit on the couch as they laugh and do their gift exchange. After a while, Molly sits down next to me. “I like to watch them, too, you know. They're happy.” We sit next to each other for a while, just watching. They eventually make us join. I play a few pieces. I have not played for anyone in years. It is a happy occasion. 

We take a cab home. John is very drunk. I've never seen him drunk. I didn't think he liked alcohol, after what happened to Harry. He is drunk nonetheless, and I have to half-carry him into 221B. Mrs. Hudson is asleep. She doesn't need to know he's drunk. I get him some water. I know enough about hangovers. I half-help him into his pajamas and put him to bed. I get in a minute later. 

“Sherlock--” 

“Yes, John?” 

“I love you, Sherlock.” He's slurring his words. 

“Yes, John. You're drunk. Go to sleep.” 

“No, Sherlock.” There's earnest in his voice. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, John.” 

“That's good.” 

I hear him snoring a minute later. He meant it. I studied speech in Uni. He was telling the truth. These thoughts rolled around in my head. I never thought about this. At least not consciously. Confused, I fell asleep. 

I woke up before John, for once. I pull the curtains closed and went to make some tea. I brought him some ibuprofen with a cup and shook him awake. He groaned, took the pills, and went back to sleep. I left him there. He was off work, anyway. He stumbled out of his room around noon. I had set him out some breakfast. Plain food. He nodded at me gratefully and returned to his cave. 

It's still haunting me. Sherlock. I love you. I love you too, John. He comes out for real later, when his head is hurting less. I ask him how many times he's been drunk like that. He doesn't answer me right away. 

“How many times, John?” 

“A few.” 

“How many is that, John? Since I've known you.” 

“Quite a few, Sherlock. It got hard, okay?” 

The words hung in the air for a minute, the okay ringing in my ears. I sat there, saying nothing. 

“I'm sorry I snapped, Sherlock.” 

“I'm sorry I put you through that.” 

We sat in silence. We both had our struggles. I am not the only one who broke. I do not think he remembers what he said last night. There is no worry on his face about what he said. I want him to have forgotten. But some small part of me, buried way inside, wants him to remember. 

“John?” 

“Yes?” 

“Do you remember anything from last night?” 

He thinks a minute. “Which part?” 

“When we got home.” 

“I don't think so. Why?” Oh. 

“You were pretty incoherent, that's all.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“Not a problem, John.” 

A few weeks later, Lestrade has a birthday. They seem to have gotten use to drunk John. I can't believe I left him to get like this. I can't believe they let him get like this. But I say nothing. Again, I help him into the flat. Into bed. Again. 

“Sherlock. I don't think you know.” 

“Know what, John.” But I do know. 

“I love you, Sherlock.” 

“I know you do.” 

“Say it to me, then.” 

“Say what?” 

“You know.” 

“I love you, John.” 

“Good.” 

In the morning, he seemingly remembers nothing. This time, I can't leave him unknowing. 

“John, do you remember last night?” 

“I was drunk, Sherlock.” 

“John, you said something to me. Do you remember?” 

His back stiffens. The color drains from his face. He remembers. 

“Sherlock, I--” 

“It's okay, John.” 

He nods and eats in silence. Oh god. I embarrassed him. This was not my intention. Could I fix this? Probably not. Should I try? Probably. But how? 

“It happens, you know.” 

He nods. Oh god. I made this worse. 

“I mean..” 

“I get it, Sherlock. Just...” 

The conversation drops off here. I shouldn't continue this. I'll just screw it up more. He gets ready for work. I remain in the flat. I clean again. It becomes a nervous habit. When everything's neat, I go out to the shop. I buy milk. John comes home late. He's been out, at a bar. He isn't quite drunk yet, just a bit out of it. He's very nervous. I think he didn't want to face me sober. I say nothing as he rambles on about how he was crazy. When he's done, I lead him to bed. He's still going on and on while he puts on his pajamas. I put him in bed and turn off the light, though it is only eight o'clock. 

He eventually stops talking, though he does not sleep. I sit next to him. He stayed with me when I was broken, in the beginning. I will now do the same. He is falling asleep. His breathing is slowing. On a whim, I place a kiss on his forehead. I hope he remembers. 

I do not sleep this night. I sit up, drinking tea, watching bad television and infomercials. In the morning, I go out and sit on the roof. It is peaceful up here. The cars pass by, not halfway as noisy as the middle of the day. They are oblivious to my pain. I am oblivious to theirs. We all pass each other, none of us knowing each other's thoughts. We assume things that are not necessarily true. People are funny like that. We never know each other all the way, even when we think we do. There's always a piece of the puzzle missing. 

Somehow, John knows I'm up here. He comes out and sits with me. I put my head on his shoulder. 

“Remember the story about the snowflakes?” 

“What about them?” 

“We sat like this then, too.” 

“And?” 

“Nothing's changing, John.” 

“Why would things?” 

“You know.” 

We stay there. This silence is not tense. It is simply serene. Calm. We watch the cars. We watch the shop lights flicker on. People go in and out. I do not know their stories. We make some up. One woman comes out with a whole cart of folding chairs. Another comes out of the corner store with nothing but pears. People are strange. But then, we are sitting on our roof, watching them. Nothing is relevant. 

“When I was away...” 

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

“I almost died, John. I didn't eat for three weeks.” 

“You told me, Sherlock.” 

“I know. But... the only reason I ate again...” 

“Yes?” 

“I was thinking, I might as well have jumped for real. If I don't eat, I'll never see you again. I didn't think I was going to anyway, but if I starved to death, I would never have even had the chance.”

John said nothing. Then- “I almost jumped too, you know.” 

I pulled away from his shoulder and looked into his eyes. “You what?” 

“I almost jumped. Off of St. Bart's. But that's not what you would've wanted, was it? So I didn't.” 

“Thank god you didn't.” 

“I know.” 

We go inside. It is nearing ten o'clock. We get a call from Lestrade. A murder. Are we busy? I look to John. No, we aren't busy. We'll be right down. We get dressed. I am grateful that John kept my coat. It's too cold for just a suit jacket today. 

We take a cab over to the crime scene. With both of us, we solve the case in no time. We still baffle them, especially now that John has picked up on my skill. We return home. We both stay in the flat this night. No alcohol. It is quiet, the television playing some sitcom softly. He does not start conversation. He is too nervous. I make tea. It calms him down a little. 

“I don't know what this is, Sherlock.” 

I play it sarcastically. “It's tea, John.” 

He shakes his head. He does not find it funny. “No. Our situation.” He wants to talk about it, but he cannot start it. 

“We're us, John. There's a lexical gap.” 

“What?” 

“A lexical gap. There is no word for it. We are just us.” 

“Oh.” I can see the gears turning. “So...you're okay with this?” 

“With what, John? Being ourselves?” 

He smiles a bit. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“Of course. Who else would we be?” 

A weak laugh. “Good point, Sherlock.” 

He's tired. I can see it on his face. But he doesn't want to talk first. I take one for the team. 

“All right, I'm going to bed. Good night, John.” 

He can see that I'm not tired, but he knows why I'm saying this. He follows me and goes to bed. I lie there for a while to make sure he's asleep, and go back out. I fix myself some food. Eventually I join him in bed. We are ourselves. We are unlike any other. 

When I wake up, John is gone. He has work today. He has left me a note telling me where he is. I sit around all day. There is nothing to do. He is so confused. I can't help it. I laugh. It's kind of cute. He's flustered. He has had so many girlfriends he barely knows. Why is he so ignorant about how to act around his friend, his flatmate? 

I walk around the rest of the day, pacing until he gets home. I am bored. I need something to do, someone talk to. I go down and visit Mrs. Hudson. She is a good distraction. But then she leaves, and I am alone again. I am happy when John gets home. I missed him. I feel brand new, like when I came home from France. Just wanting to hold on to someone and not let go. 

We continue this awkward dance for a few weeks. We both make conversation, not really strained, but confused in manner. 

We get a call from John's sister Harriet. Normally he ignores her, but he left his phone at home while going to the shop. It's her birthday. She's invited us over. I accept for him. He fusses at me for a bit when he gets home, but realizes there's nothing for him to do, so he settles down. We go to get something for her, but it ends up just being a fleece blanket with an elephant on it. He gets really distant when he tells me about her. I know he wants to mend things. This may be the time. 

Her flat is small, but it fits her. She's a free spirit. There's not much here. She's ready to go wherever the wind takes her. While we get to know each other, John goes and hides the alcohol. I know why, from the first time we met. A few of her friends come over. John and I meet them all. He knew a couple of them from when Harry was in high school. Halfway through, Harry comes and sits next to me. John is nowhere to be found, and her friends are dancing. 

“You're gay,” she says. It isn't a question. 

“Yes.” 

“Cool.” 

We sit there. She doesn't question me at all. I like her. She understands. I go home with weight seemingly lifted off my shoulders. I do not know why, though it is a relief. 

Our routine is special to me. Ordinary to most. Extraordinary for Sherlock Holmes. We stand side by side to brush our teeth. We get into bed, backs toward each other. Tonight, however, I turn to him. 

“John?” 

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

I don't speak for a second. Then the words come. “I love you, John.” 

He says nothing. Did I do the wrong thing? I am prepared to go back to my old room. Then-- “I love you too, Sherlock.” 

I smile and roll onto my back, content. He said it. The world is a good place. We have seen so many things to make a person believe not. I have heard one to make me know it is. 

I wake up in a good mood, before John. I play the violin out on the roof. It has become a good place for me. If I stand near the edge, people look up and watch for a minute. Isn't that Sherlock Holmes? Yes, I think it is! But then they leave. 

John finds me out here. I say nothing until I finish my piece. He hands me a cup of tea when it's over. We sit like we usually do as we drink it, my head on his shoulder. I love this. 

One day I come home with a cat. John names him Doyle. He's a little black kitten I found on the street. John becomes Doctor Watson and takes him to go get some shots. In a week, he knows the flat better than I. We lose him often and, hours later, have to dig the mewing kitten out from behind something. I buy a laser from the pet store. It becomes a nightly thing, John and I sitting on the sofa, taking turns letting Doyle chase the red dot around. His arm is around me the whole time. I am happy. 

Calls from Lestrade come less often after Moriarty's system fell. I find myself alone in the flat more often than not. It's lonely. I wait for John to return. 

I apply for a job at a bookstore around the corner. I get it. I work four days a week from nine to five. John gets home at six, so I have an hour to myself. I talk to Mrs. Hudson. I write a letter to the deli man. He wrote me back last time, inviting me to visit whenever I felt. I accept. John and I will make a trip to Germany next Tuesday. I call his office and work it out with the receptionist. It will be a surprise. I get my driver's license that week. I will drive. 

Tuesday morning, four o'clock. John is asleep. I pack him overnight things. At seven, I wake him up. He begins to get ready for work, but I tell him that he has the day off. He is confused, so I lead him to the car I borrowed from Mycroft. He gets that we're going somewhere. Once we're in, I tell him the plan. He's excited, but still a bit tired. He sleeps most of the way to Germany. I wake him up when we park outside the deli. The man greets me at the door. I introduce him to John. He speaks a little broken English, and welcomes John to Germany. We go inside. I get us sandwiches. John and the deli man speak to each other mostly through me. Occasionally the man would make a remark about him to me. He's funny. He's nice. You've got a good friend here. I nod in agreement. John is confused, but says nothing. 

A while later, I bid farewell to the deli. We walk around the shops. I show him the one where I first remembered the milk, and he thanks it. I laugh. We walk around for an hour or two, going into various shops and occasionally buying things. Eventually we go back to the car. 

“Wait, Sherlock.” 

“What?” 

“You don't have your driver's license.”

I smile and pull it out. I hand it over to John. He looks at it for a minute, verifying its authenticity. He smiles. 

“So, you finally got it.” 

“I did.” 

“Well. Now I know I won't be dead by the end of this trip.” He laughs. 

We get in the car and I drive to the hotel. He complains that he didn't bring anything and I point to the bag I packed for him this morning. I come prepared. The hotel is small, but we'll make do. There are two single beds. I do not like this. Neither does John, by the look on his face. We lie in bed with the lights out. Neither of us sleep for a while. 

I finally slide in next to John. The bed is not quite big enough to sleep how we normally do, so we face each other, our arms tangled up in the middle. Somehow his hand finds mine. He is asleep. This is how it's meant to be. I sleep too. 

When we get back to the flat the next afternoon, John goes to work. I don't have a shift today, but I go to the bookshop anyway. I sit in the back with Jackie. We talk about the shipment of books that came in today. A new one from her favorite author is among them, but she can't afford it. I buy one as I'm leaving and put it on her shelf in the back. 

I get a call from Lestrade. Missing person. Child's play to me, but I go to help them anyway. The man in question is soon found (by me) dead on the side of the road. I see it almost immediately. They arrest the wife for beating him to death and I go home. 

Five o'clock. One hour to wait for John. Nothing good is on right now. I just solved a case. The flat is relatively clean. I take a nap. John is making dinner when I wake up. Spaghetti. I lean on the doorframe and watch him cook for a minute before announcing my presence. I clear the table(a bit) and get out the plates. Sherlock Holmes feels like being helpful today. He tells me about work while we eat. I tell him about the book I bought for Jackie. That's nice of you, Sherlock. I know. 

Another day. And another. Our life is at equilibrium. Boring at some points. As a whole, a good life. Over the next six months, I become the bridge between John and Harry. He becomes the one between Mycroft and I. 

Harry and I spend a lot of time together, when John's at work and such. She understands John and my situation. It is comforting that I don't have to hide it from her. She is very good at seeing, like I am. Better than John. He doesn't like that very much. We laugh. She beats me at Cluedo. John pays her 20 pounds for that spectacular feat. He does not play Cluedo with me anymore. Neither does Mycroft. 

Harry pulls me a little out of my shell. It is good to be less isolated from the rest of the world. We go out to the shops and talk to people. It's part of my “People Boot Camp.” She's a bit weird with her methods. Most people don't get her. I do. I am less cruel to Anderson after a few weeks of this. John applauds her on her progress. I told her I'd pay her to loosen Mycroft up. That's something I'd truly like to see. She accepts the challenge. Three weeks later, nothing. Finally something this girl can't do. 

One day I go around to her flat and she isn't there. The place is empty. She has moved. I call her. She's in America. Thanks for the warning, Harry. 

John sits with me that night. He tells me that she's always been unreliable. I drink his horrible tea. I will move on, though not as the Sherlock Holmes she would want me to be. Another thing I never told John: I went to a therapist when I was little (along with Mycroft). I have trust issues, like him. We both need to be able to trust each other. We can only do that by counting on the other to not desert us. I screwed that up majorly. 

I tell John about the therapist now. No need to keep that secret. I tell him other things, too. In case I lose the chance. Strange things: my overwhelming fear of spiders. My hatred of omelettes. The typewriter I wrote with in my basement. Serious things, too. The fight that ruined Mycroft and my relationship. My drunkard father, who beat my mother in front of me once. Most importantly, I tell him I love him. 

“I love you too, Sherlock.” 

Somehow we're out on the roof. I do not remember getting here. I think I may be having a panic attack, but I'm hyperventilating too fast to be reasonable. John is trying to calm me down. We are sitting like we usually are up here. John's hands are around my shoulders. I am faintly aware that I'm sobbing. He's trying to shush me. I try to stop myself. It is not working. I continue to cry. I have never done this before. All the terrible things that have happened to me or around me, I have never truly cried. The Holmes brothers were trained better than that. 

Suddenly I am back downstairs. John's room. I am in bed, still crying, though quieter now. John is sitting with me in the dark room. Shh, Sherlock. Shhhhhh. You're okay. I do not remember falling asleep. 

John is not here when I wake up. He is in my room, sleeping. I cannot go back to sleep without him here. I climb in with him. He wakes up and sits with me until I fall asleep again. I am helpless right now. 

John takes a week off work. He calls the station, tells them we're unavailable. I am not working for two weeks. The manager is on vacation. Everyone knows it, but no one says it: the great Sherlock Holmes is broken. He is long beyond fixing. 

I think back to the cemetery. The half turn that was to a commanding officer, to me before the fall. That Sherlock was powerful. That Sherlock was brilliant. That Sherlock was apathetic. I think to the mirror I bought for the Montpellier flat. The face that I wanted to remember, ginger Sherlock. That Sherlock was happy. That Sherlock was hopeful. I think back to the day in Germany with John. The way we slept in the single bed, entwined to our souls. That Sherlock was the best version I have ever been. That Sherlock was loving. I am none of these people anymore. I am bits and pieces of them, strung together with strands of fragile thread. 

I can't face John the next day. I text Anthea. She picks me up and we drive around the city for a long time. Six thirty, she drops me back home. I slink into the flat, hoping to pass by John. My attempt failed. He's sitting on the sofa. I join him. 

“I'm sorry.” 

“For what, Sherlock?” 

“Everything.” 

“You don't have anything to be sorry for, Sherlock. You've had a tough life.” 

I lean into him. His sweater is soft against the side of my face. We are one. We stay like that for a long time. This is what are relationship boils down to, isn't it? The need to be close. The need to be quiet. I close my eyes. So does he. We are back at the essence of human existence. We breathe. We stay. I am new to this. John is not. I see why he's always got a girlfriend. Am I his boyfriend? I think we're past labels. I am Sherlock, and he is John. The most prominent lexical gap. 

It is late when I next open my eyes, though I have not slept. The overwhelming panic attack from yesterday seems to have passed. I have no idea where that came from. I was fine on Monday. Maybe I wasn't. Maybe I've just been waiting for something to set it off. 

We spend this week together. I find him watching me sometimes. Not as if I was a bomb waiting to go off, just to make sure I was still okay. It's very comforting. In a week I'm back to normal. The paranoia is shaken off. John will not leave me. He's got trust issues, too. He knows. 

One day we're up on the roof after dinner, watching the city. John is laying on his back next to me. Bored of the lights, we lie back and watch the sky. You can't see much of it with all the pollution. 

“One time,” he begins, “we were out in the country. Camping, you know? And Harry looked up and named all the constellations. There are so many, Sherlock. Have you seen them?” 

I shake my head. “Not all of them, no. There were a few more in Germany than there are here, though.” 

We listen to the cars. I show John the stars I know. The air is cool, the perfect temperature. There's a blanket underneath us. I am aware of every single cell in my body. I move closer to John. He takes my hand. 

“Sherlock?” 

“John.” 

“Is this all we're going to be?” 

“What?” 

“Lying on the roof, holding hands. Is there any more for us?” 

“Only if we make it, John.” 

We are quiet. We are one. Only if we make it, John. I know it's time. It was time long before now. We have played a fragile game. Now it's time to seal it with a kiss. The way we lie now makes it easy for me to lean over him. I don't remember anything. I kiss him. Time stops for us. It does not start again. There. It's official. The lexical gap is closing. There's a term for it. There has been all along. Us. After a minute (or maybe a billion years) we stop. Neither of us want to, but we do nonetheless. He's smiling. So am I. I lay back down next to him. His hand finds mine again. Our fingers intertwine. The cars keep going by. We are alone on the roof. What the hell. We kiss again. It has been such a long wait for both of us, though we did not realize it. We need this. 

I stop having panic attacks. John stops getting drunk. We are finally whole. We are happy. We hide it from Lestrade and the people at the station. Molly knows. You can't keep much from her. She, like Harry, is good at seeing. We are together. We are us. 

Harry comes back to London. She said she missed the accents, but I think she really missed John. They got close, for a while. She sees we are together almost immediately. When we're alone, she congratulates me for scoring her brother. I laugh. She laughs. She is part of my family. 

It snows most of that winter. The story about the snowflakes is told to Harry and Molly. Everyone seems to know now. Molly hangs out at out flat often now. We all do things together. Harry and I play Cluedo while John and Molly place bets. Molly takes us to the theater to see her sister's play. I take Harry to a case when John is sick. We solve it faster than John and I do. Sally is shocked when she sees how easy it comes to her. She calls her 'Freak #2.' Harry laughs at that. 

Harry hosts the Christmas party this year. Her flat is only a bit bigger than her old one, but we fit. She insists that it should be an ugly Christmas sweater party, but insists that John wears one of his normal sweaters, they're ugly enough. He hits her with a magazine for that, and we laugh at him. We're not a natural family, the four of us, but we are more than functional. I cannot fathom a world without them. 

I remember the Sherlock Holmes John remembered at the cemetery. I remember the Sherlock Holmes from the deli mirror. I remember the Sherlock Holmes from the France flat, the one in the single bed with John, and the one who broke down on the roof. I am none of these people. The best of them is the worst of me. 

I said I was only on the side of the angels. Now I am one of them.


End file.
